Words
by KnightedRogue
Summary: Leia deals with the transition from senator to rebel.


You could try to sue me for infringement, but it won't do you much good. College student. Enough said. ;)

"**Words"**

Words can't begin to describe it.

Funny, I always thought that words were persuasive, expressive. The years I spent, rehearsing rhetoric and influence, only developed an almost inhuman immortality to those syllables. Words could accomplish anything, soothe the most difficult situation. I believed in the power of words, of _my_ words, and hoped to end all grievances purely on the strength of those sounds. My entire life was a myriad assortment of education regarding words.

They were my strongest offense and most successful defense.

I suppose my naïveté could have been kept intact, had I not decided to test the durability and persuasiveness of my words. Running for the Senate had been the natural next step. I'd been trained for it. I could use those infallible words of mine and halt the pain, cease the torture, hide the fears that the current situation implied. My words would give comfort, issue courage, support the pride slowly growing in the rebellious fervor sweeping through Alderaan and, in fact, the galaxy.

The Senate had heard enough of words such as mine; they were overused and unsuccessful. Comfort? Courage? Pride? Why were these of any concern for men of greed and illusion? Money spoke much more eloquently than words; ruthlessness was a jagged edge that cut the hope in my speech in two. The place I believed to be a haven for my sympathies became a slum of violence and power. A harem built entirely on the lust for _more_.

I had heard my father speak of this cancer in the side of the Republic in its later years. He had blinded himself to that illness until it had culminated and matured to its present state in the Empire, had allowed it to infest even the most healthy of minds. His memory of the progression of the cancer produced a despondent protectiveness of me. He did not beg: Bail Organa would not appear weak in front of anyone whom he served. But he came as close to it as I have ever seen him. His eyes became worried, aggravated by the slightest mention of my post. He watched me carefully, searching for symptoms for the cancer and hoping to catch it before it proliferated into his daughter's innocent mind.

He needn't have worried. I was as immune to it as he.

The cancer infected the others, and for once, my words were meaningless. They could not save my peers, couldn't cure the infected. The pain, torture and fears continued, undeterred by my most passionate pleas and exhortations. Comfort was a lost commodity for the weak, courage a fruitless trait as useless as the Knights of old. Pride was replaced by a lightly-woven web of loyalty that simply broke off and reattached itself to the most profitable company available.

So I took my words and brought them to a sanctuary where they would be heard and appreciated.

The Rebellion was a reciprocal breeding ground for inspiration: I gave my words, maimed slightly from their Senate betrayal, to those desperate soldiers, and they, in turn, gave me the strength and courage to speak my words again. The symbiosis gave relief to both parties, and gave me the fortification to duel with the double-edged sword. I could handle the lies and deceit of the Senate, as long as I knew I could continue to pursue the Rebellion in secret.

I skirted treason for my soldiers, for those that lost their loved ones and those that had lost their innocence. I understood their pain, but had never been a victim to it. Until Alderaan. Until the words that spilled from my mouth deserted me in the most desperate of hours. When my words, meant to protect several million innocent lives, failed to save even one. I was left alone, utterly alone, without allies, without friends, without defense or offense, because my words were blood to my mouth. They, like me, had been caught in the act of betrayal, and, as a result, I lost everything I had ever acknowledged as beautiful or safe. I had become what I most despised: a destroyer of my own people. My words had become what I never thought possible: a catalyst for pain and torture. The very issues I had trained my words to battle.

Unwittingly, my words had killed Alderaan.

In the months since Yavin, I've discovered that my philosophy has been incorrect all along. Words cannot accomplish anything. 'Words' are nouns, not verbs. They can do nothing but _inspire_ actions.

Therefore, I've developed a tendency to rely on actions, and only use my words to initiate the response I desire. Actions are more versatile than words, anyway. So I lay my verbosity and grand vocabulary aside and focus instead on my blaster or a piece of intelligence: something that can do more than express an action or thought. This way, the meaning is clear and decisive. This way, I have no room for ambiguity.

This way, I can begin to atone for the pain my naïve words caused.


End file.
